Written for the october 10th promtp, an old and rickety tree house, and of course, in the middle of autumn. Hope you like it. (And review! 'cause reviews make me happier.)
The Tree House
By: Nekare
The tree house is ancient, belonging to Remus' father when he had been a small child in a big war, on both the magical and muggle side. He had told his werewolf kid hundreds of stories involving the tree house and frogs and summers under the sun and tawny boys with bright eyes and all of the time of the world to explore with the school closed for the bombs. Remus knows his father always felt guilty for the fact that his most beloved years were the ones that brought depressing and black memories for other people, but he still cherishes the way his father would sit him on his knees on rainy days and talk for hours on end, reading thick books as Remus got older.
And then it was Remus' turn to go to Hogwarts, and when he came back on the summer just before the fifth year and brought his three friends, it was his time to build memories inside the tree house; four boys cramming on the reduced space sharing apples covered with caramel that would stick their teeth together and the pumpkin sweets Mrs. Lupin prepared in hope for the children to stay away from the giant ones she was growing for the still far away October; laughing and joking and being boys in summer without homework or responsibilities (and that ended the day Remus got his Prefect badge with the mail halfway trough the month).
And then Halloween came in 1981, and when Remus' eyes collapsed right before his eyes, right after being waiting for some kind of hope for months, Remus starting avoiding his parents house altogether; away from the muttered questions of 'Are you all right?' and the long lost memories the entire land brought up to surface, cutting to the bone as strongly as a full moon.
The first time Remus sees Sirius again since the incident in the Shrieking Shack is on autumn of 1994, while he's staying at his parents house out of money and a place to live, a bit thinner than he had been at Hogwarts, where he had been able to eat large meals at his leisure without worrying about his budget; but since he had found his mother's garden full of blooming pumpkins (a strange miracle, as Remus' mother had been dead for at least a decade) he had started fattening himself with homemade sweets and pie, after he had found the recipes written on yellowing parchment hidden on one of the cupboards, a note for Remus at the end of each one, suggestions and fussing in words about his health and wishes for a long live, touched with what had surely being the last of her magic.
Sirius had breezed by for a few days, just before going south to be closer to Harry, whose Scar had apparently been hurting that summer; and he was pleasantly surprised to find a big black door on his door one morning, catching him in the middle of a flea induced scratching, barking with joy once he had noticed Remus standing on the doorway with a smile, and soon Remus' face had been thoroughly cleansed (or at least that's what Sirius called it) with the help of Padfoot's tongue.
It had been wonderful, a reconnection of sorts, and while they lay together on the grass under the stars in the middle of October and in rural Scotland no less, they have the idea of going up the old tree house, just for kicks, since tomorrow Sirius will be gone again and they can't but to enjoy every second of their shared days.
So they do, and the wood is mossy and a bit moist, but it smells like summer still on both of the men's minds, summer and apples and friendship. They laugh the night away, finally free of guilt and sadness and madness to remember their youth, and as the memories start to have red-haired girls and tiny babies in them and the tears start to well up in their eyes it only feels natural to grasp each others hand; a silent comfort and a promise of something new and amazing in the simple touch.
They fall asleep like that, and in the morning, when they try to go back to the house with blue lips and shacking limbs one of the wooden steps gives out (after all, it is ancient, more than half a century old), and they end up falling hard on the colored leaf-filled grass, more laughter as a dog tries to beckon the graying man to play, chasing through the garden in the search of some warmth and a bit of the innocence they both lost so long ago.
(And when they lay on the leaves again, the sun comes out in a myriad of oranges and reds and pinks, and their hands touch again; they do fell seventeen all over again.)